He parked the car outside Jacobsén’s house in Laröd and noted that both the Lexus and the red Lamborghini were missing from the driveway. According to Molander, however, Jacobsén’s phone was in his home and in the past half hour he’d made two phone calls to Axel Stjärnström’s wife, Emilie.

During his previous visit, Fabian hadn’t had a chance to use the door knocker. It was surprisingly loud and made him back up a step and instinctively reach for the handcuffs in his jacket pocket.

But instead of Jacobsén, a blond boy of about ten opened the door. Franz Ferdinand’s ‘Take Me Out’ was roaring out from somewhere inside the house with an accompanying guitar riff that was one of the least on-key things he’d ever heard.

‘Hi, my name is Fabian Risk. What’s your name?’

‘Rutger.’

‘Your dad, he wouldn’t happen to be home, would he?’

‘No.’

‘Rutger, it’s your turn!’ someone shouted after the music finally died down.

‘Oh no? Then where is he? Your dad, I mean.’

The boy shrugged. ‘At work or out somewhere.’

‘And your mum? Maybe I could talk to her?’

‘She’s not home either.’

‘Ruuutger! Otherwise I’m going again!’

‘No, it’s my turn!’

‘You wouldn’t happen to know when one of them might be back, would you?’

‘No, but I have to get back to my friend now.’

‘I understand. Would it be okay if I came in and waited?’

Rutger was considering that, apparently unsure how to respond, when Joan Jett & The Blackhearts’ ‘I Love Rock ’n’ Roll’ started up with a guitar accompaniment that completely butchered the song. ‘It was my turn!’ Rutger disappeared into the house, leaving the door open behind him.

Maybe Jacobsén was home after all. Maybe his son was just so absorbed in the video game he was playing with his friend he hadn’t noticed his father coming back. After all, his phone was here and he’d called the neighbour’s wife less than half an hour ago.

He closed the door behind him and looked around the hallway. Clothes and shoes were strewn across the floor. He took off his shoes, too, placed them neatly by the wall and continued into a living room so big it was furnished in sections.

Near the fireplace, a number of big cowhide cushions were scattered on the floor. Beyond them, by the open-plan kitchen, was a long dining table with seven lamps hanging over it in a row from the slanted ceiling.

At the other end of the room, two corner sofas formed a big U in front of the rolled-down projector screen on which an overhead projector was showing Guitar Hero while the surround sound system blasted out the Joan Jett song, which came to an abrupt end when Rutger’s friend apparently hit the wrong buttons once too often.